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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29760450">walking on broken glass</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatterghosts/pseuds/chatterghosts'>chatterghosts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Heist With Markiplier (Web Series), Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV First Person, and a bunch of other shit, mostly canon compliant though, plus trying to reason how actor was able to "continue" his career, same with abe!, so this fic is basically that, thank u to my homies who helped me figure out some of the timeline stuff relating to actor, will take the reader up to the beginning of AHWM/ADWM, y/n isnt shipped with anyone but was close friends with damien hence the tag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:48:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29760450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatterghosts/pseuds/chatterghosts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The District Attorney has been awakened in the 21st century, and is now attempting to navigate a life they don't remember and the deaths that plagued Markiplier Manor years ago.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abe | The Detective &amp; Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Damien | The Mayor &amp; Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>walking on broken glass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s weirdly weightless, being dead.</p><p>You don’t think about it much. You don’t think much period — the world just floats by you, formless and timeless, as nebulous and ephemeral as the clouds in the sky. You know it’s been a long time; you can’t place <em>how</em> long, exactly, but you know it’s been long enough that people have forgotten you. At first, you felt the vibrations of visitors through the mirror neatly every day: curious teens, intrepid detectives, investigators and police, mourning family and friends. Day by day, though, fewer people would visit, until eventually no one was coming by the manor at all.</p><p>Over the span of decades, you can feel yourself losing hold of the world, and you can feel the world losing hold of you.</p><p><em>You will not be remembered,</em> you think. There’s no weight to the thought, no grief. It’s a statement of fact. A line on your epitaph. <em>You will be forgotten.</em> You are falling backwards, out of existence and self, and you are too tired to care.</p><p>...</p><p>And then, with sudden fervor, something pulls at you. It’s like— like a cord, almost, a bungee cord at the very center of yourself, and you are being pulled forward, <em>forward,</em> colliding with glass. The world skitters past your vision as you go from nothing to everything at once; your senses ignite with pure color, and you are all at once on the ground, sitting among dirty floor tiles and overgrowth, head pounding.</p><p>In an instant, your faculties begin to return, and you remember.</p><p>You worked in law. And you can’t remember what position it was, but you helped people. The last thing you properly remember was a poker party with your friend, your <em>boss,</em> you realize. Damien. You have friends, family, and... and something. Something else. It’s just out of your grasp, something lingering at the edges of your memory. Something big, important. Something had gone wrong — you'd fallen asleep in paradise and woken up in a graveyard.</p><p>An Actor, a Colonel, a Mayor, a Seer, a Detective, and... and you.</p><p>You couldn’t quite place it, unable to make sense of it all. Why couldn’t you remember? What had that mirror done to you?</p><p>... Wait.</p><p>The mirror. The mirror you were trapped inside. How could you—</p><p>Distracted by the suddenness of <em>being</em> again, you’d almost forgotten, and now you’re frantically trying to turn yourself around. But your sense of motor control hasn’t quite been restored yet; even though you’re not standing, you nearly topple yourself as you rotate to see what’s become of the mirror that housed you, sweaty hands smearing the grimy floor.</p><p>The sight makes you recoil: the gilded mirror frame has cracked down the center, and the glass has been irreparably broken, splintering into dozens of reflections of your image, each one wide-eyed and bewildered. You lift a hand to your face, and you cannot stop shaking as you see yourself trace the shape of your jaw, the contour of your nose</p><p>Nausea overtakes you. Your memories are still fuzzy at the edges, but you know, you <em>know</em>, that this isn’t your face.</p><p>
  <em>What...</em>
</p><p>
  <em> What?</em>
</p><p>Shaking like a newborn animal, you pull yourself to your feet. Your fragile sense of balance is only maintained by clutching the set of drawers, and you use it to turn yourself toward the exit.</p><p>And at that moment, you realize two things:</p><p>Firstly — you know you weren’t just some lawyer or legislator. You were a <em>District Attorney</em>. And a damn good one, at that; evidence had a hard time evading you.</p><p>And secondly — there are all-too-fresh signs of foot traffic on the dusty floor. They’re only slightly too light to profile, but they’re there, and they’re new, and there’s the slightest swell of pride in your chest as you realize that your memories aren’t as buried beneath the surface as you’d previously thought.</p><p>You backtrack in the footsteps as lightly as you can, arms held out to try and steer yourself. Just <em>how</em> long had it been? It had been October, last you remembered — it was all still fuzzy and just out of your recollection, but you can still see the leaves decaying from green to red in your mind’s eye.</p><p>As you suck in a breath and open the front doors to the manor, sunlight washes over you. It feels delightfully warm, but you had to screw your eyes closed to stave off the sudden rush of a headache. How long had it been? It was summer, now — what, had you been gone 6 months? 7? 8?</p><p>Unsure of what to make of your newfound freedom, you start walking, slowly finding the rhythm of your own footfall as you carve your path out of the manor. You know the path back to the fringes of Los Angeles, but you’ve never walked it before — it could take hours, and you didn’t know if you had so much as minutes.</p><p>Turns out, it’s not a long walk to a filling station — no more than 20 minutes, anyway. The bright, blinking sign above the building depicts a sea shell of some sort, and you feel another prickle of anxiety as you consider the fact that it may have been more than a few months, if the alien technology above you is any indication. Nonetheless, you exhale a shallow sigh of relief as you push open the doors to the air-conditioned convenience-store portion of the building.</p><p>Being back in civilization had never felt so good, even though a quick inspection of your pockets tells you you don’t have any money. You sink into a small booth stationed near the door, noting that none of the colorful packages of chips and candies seem particularly appetizing to you. It seems it was a lot longer than just 8 months.</p><p>You scrub at your eyes as you relax, feeling the eyes of the counter boy settle on you as the light of early evening spilled through the window. You look up to him, attempting a meager smile, and the smile he returns to you reveals to the world that he'd had salad for lunch.</p><p>In the beat of silence that ensues, something else catches your eye. You scramble back to your feet once more, suddenly scurrying to the counter and grabbing a magazine protruding from the rack of candy bars. You feel a wave of nausea strike you again.</p><p>Printed on the cover, face contorted in a steely grimace, is Damien, <em>your</em> Damien, overlaid with the advertising information for some new film called <em>The Drowned Man</em>. Your eyes frantically scan the celebrity rumors for a hint of recognition, and your heart stops as you read the tag line hooked beneath the movie title:<em> starring Markiplier</em>.</p><p>Beneath that, it says <em>“In theatres September 20, 2019.”</em></p>
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